


A Lot of Drabbles!

by Lilachigh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:43:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilachigh/pseuds/Lilachigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I seem to have an enormous number of drabbles and short pieces of fiction that need a home.   Do let me know if you like any of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Spike Drabbles by Lilachigh

 

The Path Divides  
“Will you accompany me to Reverend Brown’s Bible reading tomorrow evening?”  
“Mama!” Her son stared at her pale face in consternation. “I was planning on attending – ”  
“William, dear,” the voice was pained. “Is it some important meeting?”  
He hesitated – hated disappointing her - but, an evening listening to the Reverend Brown droning on about faith or an evening talking poetry to Cecily….?  
But his Mama must come first. He sighed but at the sight of his unhappy face, his mother relented.  
“Never mind, William. I’m sure it will do you far more good to go out and enjoy  
yourself.”

First Christmas:  
It was funny what you missed, he thought, wiping the blood from his mouth. He’d thought it might be the beef, the turkey, making a wish on Stir-Up Sunday as the brandy was poured into the Christmas pudding mixture.  
He growled as Angel kicked him away from the body and took more than his fair share of the blood still pumping from the severed artery.  
But it was none of those. Not even the crackling log fire, the new clothes you always wore on Christmas Day.  
He lurched away across the stone floor, wondering if he joined Darla and Dru on the bed they’d welcome him or kill him.  
He’d even found it funny that carol singers who came knocking on the door became midnight snacks.  
But this morning, as the bells had rung out over the snow-covered Yorkshire Dales, he realised what he actually missed was the woollen stocking at the end of his bed – reaching down to feel the knobbly little gifts pushed inside, the gold guinea, the nuts, the orange at the toe.  
A severed head was fun to find, but not quite the same. 

 

First Promise to a Lady  
Jane stood in her bedroom, hugging herself in excitement. Sunday morning and her birthday! Now she was seventeen, everything was possible. Lots of girls married at her age. Next year she could be his wife!  
She looked in the mirror. So she wasn’t as pretty as some of the girls he knew, but last week when they’d met, he’d been so sweet and caring.  
There was an oddly confident step on the path; she ran to the window and there was William, from next door, come to escort her to church as he’d promised. And as he looked up, the shy expression vanished and he grinned in anticipation. 

 

School’s Out  
Dru didn’t understand, but for once he didn’t care. She didn’t want to travel to Windsor, to hang around watching as the boys in their white collars and top hats left for their holidays. If she could have taken her pick of those sweet, chubby lads, she’d have been pleased, but Spike wasn’t interested in the pupils. It was the masters he hunted. Those bloody men who stood by and let the bullying happen. Had they had any idea of how a curly haired, nicely mannered, poetically minded boy got treated at Eton?

 

Deepest Red

The peoples’ flag is deepest red,  
It shrouded oft our martyr’d dead  
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold,  
Their hearts’s blood dyed its ev’ry fold.

Spike surveyed the carnage he and his Princess had made at the coal miners’ union meeting in the Yorkshire village hall. And smiled.  
He’d heard that song a few years after he was turned and hadn’t truly understood it. But now - he did like it when the lyrics of a song made sense.

 

Homage - The Blood Donor  
Spike rewound the old classic black and white video again, roaring with laughter at the same point.  
Angel looked at him. “I don’t get it. What’s funny about it? It isn’t even accurate.”  
Spike froze the picture on the screen, a plump man with the tragic face of a clown wearing a black homburg hat. “He thinks the needle prick is all the blood he has to give. Then they say they want a pint and he says “but that’s an armful!” It’s sodding hilarious.  
Angel worried the skin on a knuckle. “But it isn’t an armful. You know that.”  
And Spike stared at him with pity for the first time in their joint after lives.

China  
Doing Dru, annoying the hell out of Liam, seeing the grudging respect in Darla’s eyes: the heat, the noise, the terrified screaming and everywhere the intoxicating tang and taste of blood.  
And, best of all on this sweet Chinese night, killing his first Slayer and knowing that right now, somewhere, another one had been called. And even if some lucky sod got her, there’d be another and another until – he leapt over a box, the rush of joy through his body lifting him upwards towards a destiny he could never have imagined in his most blood soaked dreams. 

Stars and Stripes  
They’d fled down the steep stone steps from the castle where the blood had gushed so brilliantly, across the river by the St Charles Bridge, the statues staring blindly at them and their pursuers. Spike was practically dragging Dru by then: she’d lost a lot of blood when the mob attacked.  
Sod it! Why did his Dark Princess always go over the top like that? No one would have raised an eyebrow at one of the ordinary citizens of Prague going missing. Oh no, Dru had to take the daughter of some bigwig guy who apparently objected violently to his child being their supper. Now they were being chased by a mob with torches and guns and a howling determination to kill them.  
Spike managed to gain some time in the maze of streets leading up to the Old Town Square and stopped to rest for a second. He had to find and steal a car and get them out of this bloody country. He loved this square, the pastel wave of pink and blue Hansel and Gretel buildings, but now he just wanted to go somewhere civilised where there were easy pickings for meals and no bloody mobs to worry about.  
“Dru!” He turned in panic – she wasn’t at his side. “God, sweetheart, don’t wander away. We need to move – now!”  
She waved her hand upwards, pouting. “I want to watch the clock, Spike. See Death come out of his little house, chasing the little people around and around and around – ”  
“They’re Apostles, not people and it doesn’t happen after nine o’clock, pet. Come on!” He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. There was the flicker of light, the shouts and yells that told him the mob had discovered which way they’d gone. “Look, let me carry you.”  
Dru danced away from his grasp, her white, blood-stained dress fluttering in the breeze like a moth fluttering around a flame. “Make Death come out of the clock, Spike.”  
He took a deep breath and smacked her hard across her beautiful face. “There isn’t any sodding Death coming out of the clock, Dru. Sorry, pet, but we need to get the hell out of Prague!”  
He picked her up in his arms and began to run again. She moaned and her eyes flickered open. Above her head the midnight sky spun and she twisted her fingers in his hair and whispered, “ I can see stars, Spike, such lovely, lovely stars and stripes and lots and lots of beautiful blood.”  
Spike didn’t reply. The cobble-stones grated beneath his boots as he ran, knowing what would happen if they caught his beloved. He wasn’t listening to her mutterings and so didn’t hear her say, “But we mustn’t go to the stars and stripes, oh no, they’ll hurt us and change us and burn us with nasty fire…

 

I only have Eyes for You:  
“I don’t like them looking at me. I can see sticky fingers and dead crocodiles!”  
Spike sighed. They’d reached France, fleeing from Prague. “Dru, you have to eat.” He’d lined up snacks, making the choice as interesting as possible – male, female, one he wasn’t sure about.  
But she had no appetite.  
“If they didn’t have eyes, they couldn’t look at me.” The depths of hell opened and shut in her face.  
He hesitated for a few seconds then went to work. She was his Dark Princess. He would do whatever it took to keep her alive. But on a list, somewhere, the hesitation was noted.

 

No Iceberg:  
“Oh Spike, look what a lovely mess we’ve made!”  
Dru was ecstatic. Spike glanced across to where she was floating in black water, her dress a white lace balloon around her. He swam towards her, hooked his hand under a piece of wood and smiled down at his beloved. Biting the guy who’d been the lookout had, perhaps, not been the most sensible thing they’d ever done, but fun.  
The wood shifted and broke, leaving him with the part that read TI - the piece reading TANIC drifted away.

 

Fleet:  
“The fleet’s in port again,  
Back home in port again.  
Yo-ho, yo-ho,  
Now we’ll have a jolly good time.”  
Spike hummed along to the old song, watching from the shadows as the nice, fresh, young, sunburnt sailors disembarked. Oh, how he loved the taste of blood through tanned skin. The nearest he ever got to sunlight. It reminded him of distant, lazy summer days - which, of course, he didn’t miss at all.  
“All the nice girls love a Sailor  
All the nice girls love a Tar.”  
And so did he. Their blood was always slightly salty.

 

Edited Out  
Spike wasn’t sure how he’d got into the bloody ship. Some demon with a sense of humour, he supposed. He’d remember to kill it when he got home. But here he was, squeezed inside a tiny little locker, no bigger than a very small coffin. He sensed it was cold outside, but that didn’t bother him. He was hungry, though. He could smell blood. He’d feed when he got free.  
They came to a halt at last; he heard the door open, and gingerly wriggled free.  
And back on earth, the astounded technicians began to scream as a black coated figure floated down the steps of the space pod and prowled after Neil Armstrong. 

 

In the beginning…  
You stand in the dark in a dingy alleyway, watching a Slayer fight – you clap your hands in mock appreciation – no, in real appreciation. You’ve always liked a good scrap. It’s no fun killing someone who can’t fight back. Whichever it is, there’s skin against skin, dead flesh against dead flesh, you compress the air between your palms and make a wave – one, two, three. Such a casual, unimportant action – will you even remember it in the years to come when the wave you started that night swells and grows and consumes you both?

 

Life goes on:  
Dru threw the cat at him as she and her Daddy vanished up the stairs into the night. “Here, lover, little snack till we get back with supper.”  
Spike smiled obediently and lifted the animal towards his fangs until the outside door banged shut. Then he placed it back on his dead, lifeless legs and felt his human face return.  
He stroked the tabby fur until a deep purr sounded. He could see new life wriggling under her skin. Kittens on the way.  
She flexed her paws and needle like claws flashed out, sinking into his flesh.  
And he winced!

 

Rock and Roll:  
The wheels made a whispering sound when he moved. Dru told him they told her secrets, nasty little stories of what he did when she wasn’t there. If only she knew. He rolled the wheelchair across the floor and placed his hand on the cold white stone. A big rock – it would be easy to fight Liam with sarcastic words, but under his skin Spike could feel unlimited power. 

 

Yesterday  
The Mexican bar had a long neglected juke-box in the corner. The records unchanged for years. Spike leant against it, the whisky bottle tightly clenched in one hand. He stared at the faded music list: Buddy Holly, Rolling Stones, Little Richard,. Why did they all remind him of better days?  
He took a long swig of Scotch. It wasn’t helping. He was still as sober as he’d been an hour ago, a day ago – He slammed a coin in the slot and jabbed a finger on the button.  
“Yesterday – all my troubles seemed so far away…”  
Huh, bloody Beatles. Liverpudlian gits. When he’d met them in Berlin he’d never imagined they’d be famous, although he’d got on with John OK. More than OK, really.  
But the words rang a bell. Yesterday he’d had his dark princess. His Dru.  
“Now it looks as though they’re here to stay,”  
Oh God, that mournful twang.  
But he knew this problem wasn’t going to vanish.  
“Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be,”  
How could she? Oh not just be unfaithful. He knew only too well that she and Liam, she and Darla – but with THAT!  
“There’s a shadow hanging over me,”  
This ridiculous ranting about the soddin’ Slayer. How could Dru see her around him? He hadn’t mentioned her – not once. Oh, OK, he’d thought about her – but bloody hell, that was his JOB. To kill a Slayer.  
“Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play,  
Now I need a place to hide away,”  
Yes, that was true. Right, he’d go back to Sunnydale and kill everyone. No – he took another long slug of Scotch; it was still having no effect - better plan. He’d find the witch and make her do a spell. Make Dru love him again. Right. Good plan!  
And he hummed the last line, “Oh I believe in yesterday!”

 

THE PARTY’S OVER…  
The room’s completely dark but that doesn’t bother me. I can still see and smell the food left on the table – the remains of the Thanksgiving meal are still scattered there. The Slayer and her friends have long gone home – Rupert pottered around with a final glass of whisky, muttering about cleaning up in the morning. Then he’d gone to bed, leaving me still tied to the chair.  
“I’ll sort something out in the morning,” he’d said, yawning. “God knows what we’re going to do with you, Spike. Why on earth couldn’t you have just caught the bus to L.A.?”  
There was no reply to that, of course. Or not one I could make to him. So I sat in silence as he turned off the lights and went upstairs, not even bothering to say ‘goodnight’.  
And the silence means I have to listen to my sodding thoughts. To accept that in just a few days I’ve gone from being a Big Bad Evil, part of a community, someone with friends, enemies, lovers to this – a thing that can’t feed or fight.  
Have I ever really been scared since Dru turned me? I can’t remember a time when I looked into the future and saw – nothing – just me, Spike, on my own. 

 

Des Res  
Spike sighed. He hated having to make decisions. Never his strong point. The problem was always the same. How to choose which cemetery to live in.  
Old and overgrown was good – usually his first choice, but there was often a shortage of suitable homes. The modern graveyards were often further out from town and so quieter and darker at night. They attracted silly couples who sneaked in to make out on some poor devil’s grave.  
That was useful – the boys made late night suppers and the girls were great early breakfasts after a night spent showing them exactly what they’d been missing from their boyfriends all this time.  
But Dru had hated living in graveyards – she said they were damp and that Miss Edith’s clothes got all mouldy. She disliked crypts with a mad passion. He’d always found them quite cosy once you’d got the telly installed and wired into the town’s electricity supply.  
No, his Princess had liked abandoned warehouses and mansions with all the old curtains hanging in spiders’ webs and carpets that crunched under foot with bug shells.  
That had been the beginning of all the trouble in rotten Prague. If they’d only stayed living in a cemetery then they wouldn’t have landed themselves in so much trouble.  
Now, after the Whelp’s basement, anything would be OK. At least it wouldn’t smell of old socks and decaying pizza. But this place he’d found was OK. He listed the good points. Okay neighbourhood, timber front door, extensive top room, stone floor and the added attraction of no windows. And a plus, a basement crypt with easy tunnel access to all local amenities such as Willies Bar, shopping mall, electricity lines, sewers.  
Yes, this would do very well.  
The thought did cross his mind briefly that this crypt was situated in the cemetery that the Slayer patrolled more than any other because of the high vamp activity.  
But he wasn’t planning on hanging out with her, so it didn’t really matter, did it?

 

Cosy:  
The tea-making lesson had gone quite well. Giles had explained to the Scoobies about always warming the pot first, using boiling water and letting the tea brew for a few minutes before pouring it out. He’d ignored Spike’s disagreement about whether the milk should go in first or last, but when Buffy admitted she did not possess a tea-cosy to put over the pot, their expressions of disbelief were identical.

 

Takes One to Know One  
‘Smack!’ Xander’s palm slapped against his face, leaving a bright red mark. “Gotcha!”  
“Mosquito?” Willow asked sympathetically.  
“Oh, I thought he’d suddenly realised that that was the face he was stuck with for the next forty years,” Spike sneered.  
Xander spun round, glaring. “Listen, just because we let you sit out here in the yard with us tonight, doesn’t mean you get to talk.”  
Spike shrugged. He wished Buffy would come back from patrol. It would be more fun annoying her than the boy. A whining buzz flashed past his ear and carefully, he reached up, palm cupped, and felt the flicker of tiny, tiny wings and feet against his skin.  
Slowly, very slowly, he brought his hand to his mouth. Dru used to catch them to eat, but you needed a lot to get the taste and he’d always found that a friendly approach was better, one biting, blood-sucking creature to another, so to speak.  
“Good evening, little mother,’ he said politely under his breath, because he knew it was female. “Are you hungry? Bring your friends, the whole family, hey, bring the entire neighbourhood. That boy over there – he’s very very tasty!”  
And with a flutter of fingers he aimed her in the right direction and sat back, smiling.

 

Boots:  
Four booted feet, side by side on a wooden step – two small, two large - dusty, black, scuffed. Blood stains on the laces, blood staining the tongues. There’s a trace of blood on his teeth – remnant of a distant meal. There’s blood on her lips from biting them to stop from crying.

 

Variations on a Word  
Spike peered at the vegetable on the chopping board. “So what is it?”  
Buffy sighed and hit it with a knife. “It’s a squash.”  
Spike stood closer and blew down the back of her neck. “Yes, you’ve got a very small kitchen, Slayer. But I’m not complaining!”

 

 

Four Little Words  
The sound of smashing glass made Buffy open the crypt door with slightly more caution than usual. She flinched as a bottle – empty, she hoped – flew past her ear and crashed against the wall. She flung herself inside and crouched behind a stone tomb. Was Spike being attacked? She couldn’t sense a demon or another vamp, just the overwhelming smell of – euwwwwh – Scotch.  
She stood up, gingerly, letting her eyes get used to the half light. The crypt was a mess. Chairs overturned, broken glass, blood on the floor, the TV set smouldered upside down, its screen a smashed eye. She could only guess at the violence used on it. “Spike? What the hell - ?”  
The vamp was sitting with his back to a wall. He looked and smelt very drunk. “Southend,” he muttered thickly.  
“Who’s end?”  
“Southend. Bloody bottom of the bloody bottom league and they beat the Reds last night. One stupid, sodding goal, Slayer. We’re out of the League Cup. Man U! Beaten by a load of rotten Shrimpers.” The last word was roared out and Buffy was sure the stones of the roof moved.  
Her heart sank. Oh god, this was worse than any apocalypse. This was some sort of English football tragedy and she had no answer, no way of helping at all. And before she could stop herself, even knowing as she spoke that she was rubbing salt into every open wound, she said, “But it’s only a game.” 

 

Not Quite Passions  
He’d seen them, wanted them and now he’d nicked them! And was he sorry? No, he bloody well wasn’t. He headed to his crypt. God help him if anyone saw him, but he was beyond caring: he’d looked forward to this moment for years. He locked the door – no way did he want the Slayer bursting in.  
The DVD player waited. And as the achingly familiar notes and words of the theme tune rang out, he smiled. The first series – Australia, bright colours, sexy girls, impossible story lines -brilliant!  
“Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours……”

 

A Lame Excuse  
The Slayer and her little sister had gone. He was left, sniffing the scent of their presence. He prowled around his crypt, wishing he could kill something.  
OK, his horror story had been ‘lame’ to quote Dawnie. And the Slayer’s expression of amused disgust had been embarrassing. He could only imagine how more demeaning it would be if she ever discovered he had once actually hidden a baby inside a coal bin. He told himself he’d been keeping it for a late night snack, but he had the shameful feeling it might have been to save it from Angel.

 

 

Home, Sweet Home  
The devastation was complete. There wasn’t a single thing left unscathed, unsmashed, unbroken. The blast had destroyed everything he owned, except the clothes he stood up in.  
Spike stared, bitterness and fury swelling up inside him. A darkness of spirit hung around his neck, pulling him down into a pit of despair.  
OK, it had never been a posh house, not the mansion that Liam and Dru loved, not the fancy hotel Angel lived in now, but it had been the first place he could call his own, the place where he and Buffy had made love, the place of his happiest memories.  
And they’d destroyed it. The Slayer and her soldier boy. They’d thought they were what? Saving the world? Being heroes? Smashing some devil dealing scheme?  
He kicked at he smouldering heap of wood that had once been his bed. No, all they’d smashed was his home.

 

Day must Break  
Spike broke the lock easily; the door swung open and he walked in. Candles were flickering in glass vases, banishing the shadows. He stood gazing down at her. She looked strangely calm; he could almost have believed there was a trace of a smile on her face.  
He wondered how much pain he could suffer before he broke his promise and followed her. Standing at her side, he didn’t move until the window squares changed from black to grey.  
Then kissing her cold lips he left her, waiting, patiently, for the dawning of her burial day.

 

Looney Tunes  
They sat in the dark of his crypt, side by side on an ancient sofa, the colours from the TV reflecting in their eyes – red, green, white, purple.  
He’d let her have the remote – he’d let her have any bloody thing she wanted if he could – but that, of course, was impossible.  
She picked the same channel every time. Dawn was, of course, too old for cartoons, but he could see the fascination. Over and over again on the screen, comic little animals were flattened, exploded, drowned - killed. They died, then returned to life, as good as ever!

 

Wise Words  
He could hear them getting ready to leave, gathering their weapons and their courage, to face danger and death in the Hellmouth.  
He stood in the basement, fingering the shiny bauble hanging round his neck. Trust Liam to bring something so girly as a weapon to save the sodding world.  
For once he was grateful he couldn’t see his reflection. He must look like some great pouf.  
“Spike! We’re leaving!”  
His girl was yelling for him. He headed for the stairs, wishing he could stop hearing his Mum’s exasperated voice in his head:  
“You’ll be late for your own funeral one of these days, William!”

 

FRIEND  
No one had told him until he asked – perhaps they thought he already knew. Her death had been pushed into the background, somehow overlooked in the bloody aftermath it caused.  
He’d heard all about that as his sanity had returned. Red’s attempt to end the world for lost love. Even now she was back, the witch was still centre stage, where he reckoned she’d always longed to be. The dramatic entrances, the soul searching – well he knew a little more about that these days, although he wasn’t sure what he was searching for.  
But it was Tara who’d died. A sweet girl who’d never known he thought of her as a friend, who’d laughed at him and not judged and kept the big secret. The one who’d never had a chance to make an exit speech or sweep out to a round of applause.  
The one he’d never had a chance to revenge.


	2. Mayor Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mayor is about to celebrate Easter in his own, loveable fashion.

No More Mr Nice Guy!

Richard Wilkins III, Mayor of Sunnydale and, in his opinion, a really nice guy, stared at his desk calendar. He smiled: he liked the month of April. It was a sensible month containing the right number of days. Thirty was a good, round number. The Mayor scowled at the next month. May, a horrible month, with thirty-one days. In a year or two’s time, he decided, he would abolish all months with thirty-one or twenty-eight days and as for leap years – He allowed his minds to run cheerfully over what he would do with leap years and felt better.

Someone coughed and he realised his deputy was standing in front of his desk, hovering. Not that he was actually hovering, of course – the Mayor smiled faintly – now that would be a dandy sight, little feet paddling in mid-air like a duck. He sighed. He knew that only the boring are bored, but golly geez, he would have given a whole millennia of his life for a little excitement.

“Excuse me, Sir, but Principal Snyder is here to see you.”

Richard Wilkins shut his eyes briefly, but only briefly because he didn’t want to appear concerned in front of a subordinate, especially one who couldn’t hover. He’d wanted excitement, not a visit from Principal Snyder who was, without doubt, the most boring man in this universe and many others as well. 

“Well, show him in. Let’s hear what he has to complain about today.” Because there was always something! The students, the teachers, the facilities - the Mayor recalled the bills he’d had to pay recently. The damage done during the Student-Parent evening was just one example – horrendous waste of money. It was useful to have William the Bloody in town, but my, the repair bills that vampire managed to run up were unbelievable.

“Mr Mayor?”

“Principal Snyder! Welcome. Fancy a cup of coffee? Or how about a glass of milk? I always say you are never too old for milk. It grows bones and scales and – I mean bones and skin!”

The Mayor beamed and Snyder felt a cold chill run down his spine. “No thank you, Mayor. My digestion, as I think you know, is not strong and since working in Sunnydale – ”

“Well, gosh, I’m sorry to hear that,” the Mayor broke in swiftly because another lecture on the workings of the Principal’s stomach was more than he could possibly bear without doing some serious damage and he’d already had this room redecorated twice this month.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you about my concerns for the Spring Festival.”

The Mayor’s eyes lit up. “We’re having a festival? That’s great. I love festivals. All the flags and displays and a parade – there will be a parade?” he finished anxiously.

Principal Snyder pulled at his top lip with feverish fingers. “No, no parade, Mayor. There’s going to be a talent contest – ”

“I love talent contests!” The Mayor beamed and almost felt well disposed towards the silly little man sitting in front of him – although he did wish his head wasn’t quite so, so – oval - because he had an overwhelming desire to slice off the top, just like he did with his boiled egg at supper time. Richard Wilkins could not abide people who just tapped the egg gently with a spoon when you could slash it gloriously with a knife.

Principal Snyder hurried on. “The principals of the middle and elementary schools want us to join forces for this event, but I do not feel it is at all wise. All those little children scurrying about, making a mess, whining and crying if they don’t find an egg in the Easter egg hunt – ”

“I love Easter egg hunts!”

“Surely you’re not in favour of it going ahead?”

Richard Wilkins tilted back his chair. He knew he shouldn’t – it wasn’t time – he might spoil everything – but he was so bored! “Yes, I believe I am. And to help out, the Mayor’s office will provide the eggs. I’ll start my staff dyeing them straight away.”

When the Principal left, the Mayor made his way to the basement of the Town Hall. He loved the basement! It was dark and damp and smelt of – well, it was the smell you always got when long dead, recently dead and almost dead people and things were all stacked together into tottering, bloody heaps. But as much fun as it would have been to reorganise the remains tidily into male, female and unknown, he hurried past, with just a genial wave at someone who was still screaming.

At the end of a dark tunnel stood a chest, secured by lengths of heavy chain and a padlock. The Mayor fished in his vest pocket for the key, lifted the lid and peered inside. He’d been saving these eggs for another occasion – but he could always get more. But perhaps using all of them would be a slight case of over-kill! If you could imagine such a thing as too much kill! Reluctantly, he picked up just one egg and lifted it to his ear, listening for the slither of baby tentacles, the chitter of tiny needle teeth that could strip flesh with the ease of a shoal of piranhas. 

He murmured soothingly and it fell silent, its infant mind terrified by what it sensed outside its shell.

The day of the Spring Festival dawned warm and fine. The staff of all three schools had been busy since sun-up, hiding eggs and wishing devoutly that they’d taken up another profession, anything that meant that didn’t have to deal with kids! They had to admit that it helped, having the eggs arrive already painted. The Mayor had even provided a special prize for anyone who found a golden egg.

By the time the Mayor arrived, the hunt was underway. He walked through the grounds, smiling genially, his inner antennae seeking out hot spots such as the Slayer. But most of all he was enjoying the crowds of children, the joyous laughter, the happiness, the fun of it all. He could only imagine how wonderful it was going to be when the special gold egg he had in his pocket was picked up. The laughter would change to screams of pure, unadulterated terror and his smile grew wider, his eyes crinkled with delight.

Because he was good – no, excellent, he didn’t believe in false modesty – at sensing distress, he was amused to discover amongst all the jollity, one echo of unhappiness. Intrigued, he hunted it down because, hey, someone unhappy could make his day. He found a young girl sitting on a flight of steps. He supposed she was about ten or eleven, with long black hair and a face like a friendly horse. She was not a pretty child: she’d been crying and her nose was running. The Mayor pulled out a handkerchief and thrust it into her hand. “Blow!” he instructed.

Amanda looked up, startled, then did as she was told. “Sobby,” she muttered, handing it back to him. “Thang you.”

“What’s the matter, little girl?”

There was a loud sniff, then, “I’m not a little girl! My name’s Amanda and I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.”

Richard Wilkins smiled down on the dark head that just reached his shoulder. He loved black hair on girls. Much preferred it to blonde or red. “And quite right, too. But I’m the Mayor, so talking to me is permitted.”

“I’m too tall!”

The Mayor squinted down at the thin legs, the scraped knees and feet that looked too big in the blue sneakers. “Too tall for what?”

“Just too tall. I’m miles bigger than everyone else in my year. I look like a giant!” She sniffed hard. “We’re supposed to be dressed as People from Around the World. I’m a Spanish lady. I have to wear this silly red dress with ruffles. All the kids laugh. I hate them. I HATE THEM ALL.”

“Hmm. Well, little lady, hate is a powerful weapon and not one you should use lightly.” He fingered the egg inside his pocket. He could hand it to this child and within a few hours all her problems would be over. So would she, of course. He sighed and reached out, absentmindedly, to stroke the dark hair.

Suddenly a memory rocketed into his mind – a small paragraph in the Ascension documents. A prophecy? No, more like an official comment. His plans had to include a dark-haired female human. Was this the one? He peered down at the child who was busy picking a scab off her knee. Not quite what he’d imagined. He took the golden egg out of his pocket and rolled it between his palms, enjoying the terrible panic his actions caused inside the shell. “If I could tell you how to make those mean kids pay, would you want to know?”

Amanda glanced up, startled. She knew the Mayor was a very important person and he looked kind when he smiled. But – he was a grown-up and when she heard him talk about making kids pay for being mean, she couldn’t hear any smile in his voice at all. Suddenly she wanted to be out in the sunshine. The stairs where they were sitting seemed very, very cold. And there was a horrid smell coming from somewhere. She jumped up. “I’ve got to go.” And she was running, desperate to escape from - something – although she had no idea what that could possibly be.

The Mayor smiled regretfully. So, not the girl he was destined to meet. Well, geez, that was probably a good thing because she was very young and there just wasn’t time for him to watch over her until she grew up. But she was still an interesting child: she had potential. He had no doubt she would have a big future ahead of her – then he giggled. Well, she would have had a future, of course, but in a couple of years she’d be dead, of course. But – and golly geez, why was there always a but in life? – just in case she proved a problem to him in the years to come -

“Amanda!” 

She hesitated, stopped and turned. The Mayor threw the golden egg towards her and felt a surge of pride when she caught it easily. “There! The golden egg. You deserve it. Go and claim your prize. Have fun. Loads of fun.”

Amanda stumbled out into the sunshine. She peered down at the egg: she knew she couldn’t keep it. That would be cheating. The Mayor was just being kind. She crouched down to where a grating led to the sewer system and dropped the egg through the bars. There! If anyone found it down there, they were welcome to it. And almost with relief she returned to put on the red ruffled dress and being laughed at by her class mates.

Richard Wilkins III was driven back to town in a reflective mood. It had been a good day, almost perfect, except that when there had been no terrified screaming or shouting, he’d known young Amanda must have thrown the egg away. Well, he still had a chest full of fun - he could arrange for them all to be handed out.

The Mayor sighed. It was a shame, though, that today’s egg had been lost. The blood and death would have made such a good ending to the festival. Amanda had spoilt his happy day! He massaged away the frown between his eyes – he couldn’t believe that his plans had been thwarted by a small girl. Well, he would make sure that never happened again! From now on there would be No more Mr Nice Guy!

 

ends

Memories are made of this….  
By Lilachigh

 

Richard Wilkins III hadn’t meant to kill his father when he woke that morning. To be strictly honest – and the boy already had a strong belief that telling lies was wrong - Richard Wilkins II was not his father – he was a human man who had no idea that his wife had been impregnated by a demon returning to this world from somewhere a very long way away and wanting a physical form that did not include fangs, tentacles and scales.

But for ten years Richard Wilkins III - the last boy who’d called him Dick was now buried a) in a quiet grave behind the school yard and b) in the Wilkins’ basement - had tolerated this rather stupid, well-meaning man who had a great love of hunting, fishing and shooting and was extremely sad that his only son seemed to share none of his more blood-thirsty traits!

“I can’t understand why a son of mine seems so scared of a little blood,” he’d often sighed to his wife. “It ain’t natural.”

Mrs Wilkins would stoutly defend her son all her life until the day she walked unannounced into his bedroom and discovered – well, she passed over on that day and Richard mourned her most deeply, wishing he’d kept his afternoon snacks in a box instead of letting them run round in terror as he ate.

“He’s a sensitive boy. A good boy. A little gentleman. I don’t want him growing up thinking that killing things is fun.”

And her husband shut himself into his study, studied the latest gun catalogues and looked forward to the deer-hunting season. He wanted something with a lot of antlers to put on his wall, to show his friends what a good shot he was.

And all would have been well in the Wilkins world if he had concentrated on deer or moose or had even gone to India and illegally hunted for tigers. But sadly he’d stayed at home – the place he loved the best and would have given his life to defend. Which, in a way, he did. On the fateful morning, he’d looked out of his window and terror flooded through him. There in the back yard stood his only son, apparently clutched in the tentacles of some gross, mutant octopus monster, its arms studded with teeth all of which were glistening with mucus as they headed towards the little boy’s throat.

Richard Wilkins II did not, to his credit, hesitate. The shotgun came off the wall, the window was flung open and even as his son screamed “No! Don’t, Dad!” he opened fire and for the rest of his life – which was actually only a few minutes – he shot the monster dead.

For years after his parents had gone, every time the Mayor of Sunnydale entered his study, he smiled up sadly at the tentacle he’d had mounted and placed on his wall. He wasn’t the sort of man – well, he wasn’t any sort of man, of course – that kept family mementos, but he had nothing else to remind him of his brother.

ends 

 

 

 

Not Much Fun

He’d dictated a memorandum – several pages, with sub headings, footnotes, an addendum and an index. It had taken the deaths of two typists to get it right and was a document he was proud of, a first, one that would go down in history, a model for future reference on how to ascend – except no one would ever read it because all humans would be dead. 

The Mayor lined up the blotting paper and pens on his desk, smoothed away the frown line between his eyes and wondered if being all powerful was going to be such fun without an audience.

 

 

Eggsplanations:

 

The embers were still smoking, the ruins lay in water soaked chaos above. Deep in the basement of what had once been a school, a small egg rolled and slid and rolled again into the wet earth and snuggled down – to wait.

The thing inside sighed and made itself comfortable. It was disappointed – not that it had been blown into fleshy gobbets or that a girl had bested it. No, it was disappointed by their lack of basic knowledge. In his younger days, everyone would have known that when you explode magical snakes, they lay an egg at the second of their death. I mean where did they think the old saying, “don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs” had come from if not as a warning?

It settled down to wait for its hatching. Fifty years was no more than a blink in time. As it dozed off, it decided that the whole education system needed to be totally overhauled and by golly, he was the thing to do it. The next time round, he thought he might come back as President; then he could make sure such items were covered in the curriculum.

ends


End file.
